Six

Gwendolyn

9 November 1814

"Please Papa, is there nothing that can be done about this?"

"Gwendolyn, enough is enough!" My father bellowed from the end of the breakfast table. "You fought the betrothal with Josiah Matthews, and now you fight it with his successor. We are people of honor. We keep to the contract that has been signed."

My breath surfaced unsteady and short. Most of the time I maintained a proper fa?ade, but in the few short weeks since the death of my betrothed was announced, nothing in my life resembled routine. But now, it seemed, we were to pretend that Josiah's impish behavior and ill-mannered death never occurred, and I was obliged to move on to the next heir. Preposterous!

Glancing down at my plate, I lost all appetite for the breakfast so beautifully prepared by Cook. I knew she tried her best to appease my parents when so much angst flowed through every nook of the house. Nobody had called on us since Josiah's funeral, and today marked the first day in two weeks that mother emerged from her bedchamber.

Yet, at the height of my humiliation and as if the nightmare might never end, I will now marry the newest Marquess of Devon, Hunter Matthews.

My head spun as I pressed my hands across my stomach, forcing myself to not react in a violent heave.

Did it truly matter that he shouldered a prodigious pedigree dating back centuries? Did it matter that his pockets were deep, and his future included a role in the House of Lords? Shouldn't one care more about character, truth, or honor? Didn't anyone care that there should be more to a relationship? More to a marriage than a simple piece of paper?

Apparently, I'm the only one.

When His Grace, the Duke of Chilton, arrived yesterday to finalize the arrangements with my father, I could not resist eavesdropping on the conversation from an adjoining door between the study and the library. I didn't even regret the impropriety, justifying that I had every right to know what was being considered for my future. But once I heard his words, my heart crumbled at the callous declarations.

"We do not expect a love match, Langley. In truth, it will serve all parties best if they live in separate housing. I'm certain Devon prefers this. Lady Gwendolyn can live in one of the country estates while Devon is in parliament and reverse their circumstances as necessary. An heir is unquestionably required within the first five years with a spare recommended."

I held my hand over my mouth. This is truly what they think of me? A mere commodity? I had never been privy to the original contract, but when Father signed it, I was younger and considerably more na?ve, especially when I believed Josiah cared for me. Despite my foolishness, awareness offered little difference.

The duke continued,

"She will be bestowed with all manner of financial necessities a woman of her rank requires. She will want for nothing. Now, if the marquess makes an appearance at The Carlton House or at a stately ball, I would expect her to be cordial and accommodating. That is the duty of a marchioness and future duchess. I see it unnecessary to include those details in the contract since she has been well-trained and prepared for such a position."

I could no longer listen. That's all I was… a pawn to placate. My cheeks heated and my heart pounded as I fled from the room, taking refuge in my bedchamber until the duke departed.

"Gwendolyn? Gwendolyn, dear." My mother's voice pulled me from the memory.

I shook my head and cleared it from the wayward thoughts of yesterday. "Yes?"

"You should not woolgather. It is unbecoming of a lady."

I pursed my lips. So is slavery.

"Your betrothed is calling this afternoon. Please try to be civil, dear." Her voice squeaked out from the other end of the table and barely made a dent in the air.

I turned in her direction and, though I wanted to be cross with her for forcing me into this marriage of convenience—convenience for everyone but me—I knew that she herself had faced a similar fate with my father twenty-five years earlier.

"Be sure Daphne makes you presentable," she took a sip of her sherry. "We don't want to disappoint him in this first introduction."

I bit my lip and held my tongue. While I'd spouted off a sharp comment now and then, I was hardly cruel, and making my mother feel awful for her poor decisions did nothing for my unfortunate situation.

If they compelled me to wed Hunter Matthews, the new Marquess of Devon, I would hardly make it easy for him. He might've mistaken me for a fresh miss, one who swooned at a handsome face and a wink… but that was me three years ago, not now. Now I knew better. Josiah forced me to know better.

And in less than an hour, Charles announced the arrival of the distinguished guest.

Mother's smile blossomed as the Marquess of Devon entered the parlor. We stood to greet him with our traditional curtsies, but I stifled a gasp behind my gloved hand, for the man who stood before me bore little resemblance to his twin. Josiah could command the very air around him with an expression. Hunter's presence came in the form of his physique, nearly as grand as the room itself. Shoulders that rivaled the breadth of the doorway strained against the fine tailoring of his coat—a garment that, I was certain, had never cut in similar ways on his brother.

With a stride that exuded both power and grace, he crossed the room and bestowed a bow upon my mother's outstretched hand. As he turned his gaze toward me, something flickered within those steely brown depths—a spark of intrigue, maybe—before a veil of control promptly descended upon his features.

Curiosity coursed through my veins as he approached, gently claiming my gloved hand in his. A captivating smile curved his lips as he bowed. This struck me with the force of a tempest, for despite the differences in the brothers' stature, the mystery that hinted within those eyes seemed hauntingly familiar. Hidden depths swirled beneath the surface, secrets shrouded behind a handsome face, much like Josiah. I glanced away, lifting my chin with the barest of protective barriers. I would not let myself fall for such deceptions ever again.

"Please, Lord Devon, join us." Mother gestured to the empty seat beside me on the chaise. We took our seats in silence.

As Polly delivered the tea, Mother dispatched her to summon Father from his study. We had but a fleeting window—a mere handful of minutes before the men would retreat into the world of politics, estate management, or some other realm that would exclude me. Not that I was ignorant of those topics, the reason lay solely in Father's refusal to allow me to contribute. If I desired answers before Father's arrival, now was the time.

I raised my teacup with practiced grace, peering over the rim at the marquess with a gaze honed over the years of training in the art of captivating the male species. The man met my look unwaveringly, his dark brown eyes betraying no hint of unease or faltering gentility—a refreshing contrast to the nervous fumbling I often evoked in the men of the ton . I admired such assuredness, so long as it didn't stray into superiority. Haughtiness and confidence tread a fine line, and the marquess seemed to navigate it with effortless ease. Then I caught sight of a few injuries marring his perfect face and wondered what misconduct led to such wounds.

Another mystery.

"Tell me, my lord," I began with an alluring whisper, "what kind of man takes his dead brother's betrothed to wife?"

"Gwendolyn!" Mother's teacup clattered against its saucer, the crash echoing in the sudden silence.

The man's lips lifted into a partial grin, completely unruffled by my question. Setting his cup down, he leaned forward. The ardent scents of bergamot and leather wafted over me.

"The type of man who finds honor in his commitments regardless of how taxing said commitment might be."

Smiling inwardly, I kept a smooth outward appearance. I had not anticipated him to be so quick and clever. I let my long eyelashes fan against my cheeks for the space of a second before I continued. "It must cause some vexation to know you were not the first choice."

One of his eyebrows arched. "Could not the same be said about you?"

I nearly dropped my teacup this time. Was he referencing me as his second choice or Josiah's? Society seemed well aware of the reasons behind Josiah's dueling death. In truth, I believed Josiah never considered me as his third, fourth, or fifth choice, but I had not expected Hunter Matthews to state this so pointedly.

Father entered the room at that precise moment and, if not to interrupt the disastrous conversation, his timing surely saved my mother's delicate constitution from a fit of the vapors.

Clapping at the sight of him, she exclaimed with much too exuberance. "Oh, m—my dear, there you are, l—look who has come to call." She stuttered her words as father drew near and, even though our guest rose to greet my father properly, his eyes did not leave mine until the very last moment and, for some reason, I found that intriguing.